


You're Such a Big Mess

by apanoplyofsong



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Loss of Parent(s), Reunions, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8174887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apanoplyofsong/pseuds/apanoplyofsong
Summary: “I’ve been thinking about what you said. And I think it’s worth a shot.”“What...I said?”Clarke nods, stepping towards him until her knees are almost brushing his. “About getting over someone.”Bellamy's mind is turning over but it’s like someone jammed the gears, everything coming up blank. Her thighs are pressed against the inside of his knees now, the heat of her body leaking through the leggings she has on.“And getting under someone…” Oh. Oh.





	1. We're Back in Business

**Author's Note:**

> Titles from Grouplove.
> 
> A special thank you to [Julia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughtotemptme) for reassuring this newbie that I completely hadn't failed with the smut and generally providing support/feedback.

Bellamy Blake never thought he’d end up here.

Hell, even if he’d been aware of it somehow, he wouldn’t know whether to dream it or warn himself. Because, as far as he can tell, there’s no coming back from being in love with Clarke Griffin.

It starts out innocently enough.

Clarke had broken up with Lexa a few months before, and is complaining to him as she drove him home from school. He missed his bus for a debate meeting, and Clarke almost always stayed after class for one activity or another. She absentmindedly braids her hair while they’re stuck the longest red light in town, paint from the Senior Week signs she was finalizing flecking off of her hands and onto her shirt, little multicolored star signs forming on her shoulders.

“It’s just...it’s not that I miss _her_ , specifically, it’s just that sometimes I miss having _someone_ , you know? To talk to, to listen, to just be around.”

Bellamy hums and looks up from sliding the pages of research from his last topic into his binder. “You have friends, Clarke. Good friends. You can still talk or hang out with anyone almost any time you want.”

“Yeah, but,” she huffs, “it’s not the same! I don’t make out with any of you guys--except for Raven that once and Miller when he thought he might be bi--but not _recently_ and I definitely don’t get orgasms from any of you.”

“Most people can still get orgasms on their own. But, if shared orgasms are really the issue, you know what they say,” he shrugs. Clarke raises a brow at him and he raises one back. “Something about getting over someone by getting under someone else?”

She rolls his eyes and slaps his arm and he laughs, watches the blush spread over her cheeks. Then the light changes and Clarke asks about the next debate team and he doesn’t think about it again.

 

* * *

 

Apparently Clarke does.

He’s home alone one Saturday evening, a few weeks later. Weekend night shifts at her second job are the norm for his mom, Octavia’s spending the night at Harper’s, and his classes are all but done, so Bellamy’s using it as a chance to work his way through _Jane Eyre_. The aged paperback is propped up against his knees as he lounges in bed, an empty sleeve of off-brand Oreos still sitting on the table next to him, when there’s a knock on the front door. It sounds again in the time it takes him to mark his page, untangle from the blankets, and move through the little house he shares with his mom and sister.

He opens the door to Clarke.

In the moment before she sees him, it looks like she’s fidgeting--hand flexing against the strap of the bag swung over her shoulder, feet shifting on the patch of concrete that makes up their front step, fingers repeatedly tugging on one strand of golden hair behind her ear. She straightens when the door squeaks.

“Hi,” she says, shoulders squared and body braced with her normal determination. She’s staring at Bellamy with her face set, eyes almost matching the blue-gray of the sky behind her as they shine in the light falling through the door.

He blinks. “Hey. If you’re looking for Octavia, she’s not home.” Octavia had known Clarke for almost as long as Bellamy had and, for all that his sister was a few years younger than them, the two girls got along well.

“Yeah, I know.” She swallows, the bob of her throat visible, then motions past him. “Can I come in?”

“What? Oh, yeah, of course.”

Bellamy slows as they pass the sofa, wondering if this is what fish feel like when they’re caught in the current, but Clarke just tilts her head and asks, “Can we go to your room?”

She closes the door as she follows him in, setting her purse on the floor before turning to face him where he’s sat on his bed.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she starts. “And I think it’s worth a shot.”

“What...I said?”

Clarke nods, stepping towards him until her knees are almost brushing his. “About getting over someone.”

His mind is turning over but it’s like someone jammed the gears, everything coming up blank. Her thighs are pressed against the inside of his knees now, the heat of her body leaking through the leggings she has on.

“And getting under someone…”

Oh. _Oh._

“But--why…” Bellamy doesn’t finish his thought before Clarke’s arms are circling his neck, body swaying slightly off balance with the movement. His hands find her waist instinctively, steadying, and for the first time since she arrived, Clarke looks vulnerable, nervous.

She licks her lips.

“I don’t..actually trust very many people. But I trust you.”

She steps into him fully, eyes on his the entire time as she lifts one knee and then the other so that they bracket his hips, her weight caught across the span of his thighs. His hands flex where they hold her and he’s suddenly aware of every curve of her body, of the way her flesh moves under his fingers when he squeezes. His throat feels thick enough that he has to swallow, heavy, before he speaks.

“Clarke, are you sure?”

She leans back immediately, eyes sharp and concerned as she asks, “Do you not want to? Because that’s okay, that’s completely fine, I can leave if you’re--”

Bellamy tightens his hold on her again as she moves to scramble off, a little frantic. He thought he would be spending the evening with Mr. Rochester, but Clarke Griffin? That’s a thousand times better.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant! Really. I just...want to make sure. That it’s what you want, too.”

Clarke’s face softens and she scoots back up until her hips are pressed against his. There’s a flash of her smile before she leans in so close her nose brushes his cheek, lips hovering above lips.

“Oh. Then, yeah,” she says, and he feels her breathe, “I’m sure.”

When she kisses him, he can taste her peppermint lip balm, cool and sharp in the early summer warmth. It’s easier than he would have guessed, kissing Clarke Griffin. They’ve known each other since the first day of high school, her hair twisted back in twin braids as she fought him on every orientation group activity, her huff following him around as they realized their schedules were almost identical. And he’s known she’s beautiful, known he wouldn’t _mind_ rubbing his thumb or mouth across the mark above her lips, but he hadn’t really let himself think about it.

Bellamy slips his hands under the hem of her shirt as she opens her mouth, tongues sliding clumsy and a little careful against each other, and her skin is so hot, so unerringly smooth beneath his palms, that he can’t help but lean in, can’t help but slide one hand across her back and one into her hair.

Clarke smiles then, teeth nipping against his lip, and he’s gone. Everything burns white the moment her hips start to move and he can feel their teeth click and her breath catch and he wants, wants more of her hair brushing cool against his fingers, wants more of the taste of her mouth against his and more air on his body. Wants to do what it takes to get there.

Their mouths are messy now, breath hot against each other’s faces as they huff and gasp. Clarke pulls away for a moment and Bellamy panics, catalogues where his hands have slid to in case he’s gone too far.

“Everything okay?” he asks, a little breathless, scanning her face.

Instead of answering, she grabs the fabric of her shirt, twists her arms above her head, and grins as the top falls to the floor. Her bra is lacy and black and he has just enough time to wonder if she wore that for him before her lips are on his again, hips pressing a little desperate and he knows she can feel him, knows she’s aware of his blood thrumming through him with every move.

A groan escapes him as she reaches back to undo her bra clasp and from there it’s simple, to pull her further onto the bed with him, to shed their clothes one item at a time, to learn the taste of her neck and her breasts and the inside of her thigh. In every place that her hands touch him, they spread shocks of light, and he wonders if he could live in their warmth forever.

Bellamy’s working her over with his fingers, aware he stands no chance of lasting very long with Clarke still rocking in his lap, but he’ll do his best to give her what she wanted from this. When she pulls a condom out of nowhere, tears it open and rolls it over his cock, every nerve in his body feels alive. She watches his face carefully as she waits above him.

“Good?” she checks, and he squeezes her hips.The rasp in her voice echoes in his.

“Good.”

She sinks down on him and, for a moment, everything goes black.

Then he opens his eyes and the only thing he can see is Clarke: the unmarred expanse of her skin, the shining halo of her hair, the dusk of her nipples and the dark of her eyes when he touches them.

Everything in that moment, in the next, becomes her--just Clarke above him and the pleasure shooting through his bones.

When they finally move it’s disjointed, uneven, until they suddenly settle into their rhythm and he might laugh at it, this reflection of them, if he had enough air or space in his mind.

At one point she breathes, voice gone a little desperate, “ _Bell_ ,” and all he can do is bury his face in her neck, hope he can get her to say it again.

She does, a moment before he tips over the edge and her body grabs tight-tense around him. Her fingers rub frantically at the apex of her thighs until she falls over, too.

Clarke slumps against his chest and Bellamy runs his hands down her back, soaking in the feel of her while she’s there. She rolls off after a moment, shoulder still pressed against him on his narrow bed and cheeks still flushed pink, and he’s already watching when she opens her eyes to look at him.

She smiles.

Bellamy breathes. He keeps an eye on her as he takes care of the condom and throws a blanket across them, rests a hand behind his head. She looks content.

“So,” he muses as he settles in, “does this work if you never actually got _under_ someone?”

Clarke stares at him for a moment, face blank, and then she snorts. Her laughter overtakes her, bright and a little delirious around the edges until he’s joined her, the echoes shining as they bounce even in the corners of his now-shadowed room.

It feels good. It feels like them.

She slides out from under the blanket once she’s calmed, crawling across him so she can reach the side of the bed not enclosed by the wall.

“I’ll let you know,” she replies, then smacks a kiss to his cheek as she pulls on her clothes. She pauses just before she leaves the room, hand braced against the doorframe and says, “Thanks, Bellamy,” with a voice and smile so soft he can feel something break open in his chest.

Clarke leaves, and he finds himself staring at the ceiling.

 

* * *

 

He stares at the ceiling for most of the next day, too, until Octavia gets annoyed and demands he take her out for ice cream. But his mind keeps running.

Bellamy just can’t shake the sense that there’s been some kind of...shift. Some kind of door opened that he didn’t even know was there.

It’s not the sex. He’s slept with people before, both with and without feelings involved. But he’s never slept with _Clarke_ before.

It feels like a cliché, but it’s less that nobody else was her and more that she’s not anybody else.

Clarke has been in his life through the entirety of high school--got in his face when he coped with an overwhelming first year by being a dick, dropped stacks of scholarships applications in front of him the time he mentioned he wasn’t sure about college, showed up with a dress and bobby pins when he didn’t know how to pay for Octavia’s freshman dance. For most of it, she’s been by his side, on his side, shining with good in a way he was never sure how to look at.

Now he can’t skirt around it, sunspots blinking and Allegory of this Cave pulling back the shadow he’d wrapped his mind in and, _goddamn_.

Clarke Griffin.

Miller and Raven call him out at lunch on Monday. Bellamy’s been staring into the distance for ten minutes, his mind running Clarke’s laughter on loop and playing back every time she’s grinned through this new golden filter. Raven finally gets his attention when she smacks him on the nose with her graphing pad, arm withdrawing across the table as he looks up.

“Dude, what the hell?” Miller asks.

“What?”

Raven rolls her eyes. “You’ve been acting weird all day. It’s our last week of high school, you’re supposed to be pumped. Why aren’t you pumped?”

“It’s not--” Bellamy pauses, licks his lips. Raven and Miller are two of his best friends. And he is kind of freaking out, reeling just a bit under it all. He takes a deep breath.

“I think I’m in love with Clarke.”

Two unimpressed faces look back at him.

“Yeah, and?” Miller pops a chip in mouth, grimaces as he wipes the crumbs off his fingers.

Bellamy gapes a little. “What do you mean, ‘ _and_ ’?”

Raven snorts, though it sounds a little like she tries to stop it. “You’ve been in love with Clarke since, what, French class junior year?” she checks with Miller, who shakes his head.

“Soccer season that year.”

Raven nods. “Oh, yeah, soccer season. But still, last year.” Her face softens a little, eyebrow still raised. “Did you really not know?”

Bellamy stares at his friends a little blankly and shakes his head. “What am I supposed to do?”

Miller shrugs.

“Just talk to her,” Raven says. “You’re both going to school in Boston, right? It’s not like you’d have to be long distance or anything.”

Talking.

Right.

He can do that.

Bellamy eats a few bites of his cafeteria pizza mechanically, managing not to wonder what the pepperoni’s made out of before he stops. “Wait--you guys knew for a year? Why didn’t somebody _tell_ me?!”

“Dude.” Miller shakes his head.

Raven just laughs for the rest of the lunch period.

 

* * *

 

Graduation comes on Friday, which is enough of a distraction for the time being.

Bellamy sits on the school’s football field, sandwiched into a folding chair between two people he’s not sure he’s ever seen before, sweating beneath the polyester of his gown. The tie that took him three tries to get on is hot and uncomfortable and a drop of sweat rolls behind his ear from beneath the cap. Whoever thought that scheduling their outdoor ceremony for 1pm was a good idea should probably be fired.

When his name is called, he focuses on not tripping in his clunky dress shoes, purposefully not looking at Clarke where she’s sat just offstage as salutatorian. But he’s still aware that she’s smiling and clapping for him, even letting out a _whoop_ that contradicts her overly composed appearance. She seems unphased by the heat, even beneath the black of her gown and the weight of some school official’s glare.

He’s been pretending that his room doesn’t still glow with the warmth of her skin.

Bellamy shakes the principal’s hand, moves his tassel, shuffles back down the aisle to his seat. His mom slips out of the stands, already dressed in her work uniform, and Bellamy commits to cheering his friends as they’re called out in line.

Octavia finds him as soon as the ceremony finishes, trapped in the wave of families flooding the field.

“Congratulations, big brother!” She jumps up to hug his neck and Bellamy wraps an arm around her.

“Thanks, O.”

His sister continues chatting excitedly and Bellamy looks around him, trying to take in the scene. Octavia’s smiling face, the mortarboard in his hand, the hum of people celebrating. This is supposed to be big, he knows. Mostly it just feels bizarrely mundane.

Clarke catches his eye in the crowd. A clump of people stands around her, her parents on either side, and she’s smiling, nodding, blonde hair as bright as the midday sun. Her gaze slips from the group and finds his, eyes going soft. She _beams_ when she realizes he’s looking, the force of it enough that Bellamy expects it to knock him over, leave lasting marks.

Later, he thinks. He’ll tell her later. They have time.

So Bellamy just smiles, waves a little small and awkward, and lets Octavia pull him away with talk of the Little Debbie Swiss Rolls she built into a cake.

 

* * *

 

Then his mom doesn’t come home two weeks later.

The police find them, let him know her heart gave out in the middle of the bus and Bellamy swears he feels his heart stop, too.

Everything else stops with it.

The summer blurs past him, nothing but heat and paperwork and more hoops to jump through than he’s ever seen in his life.

He withdraws his hold on a place at college sometime between getting the news and realizing he needs 15 copies of the death certificate. When Octavia finds out, she’s livid, doesn’t talk to him for a week, so he compromises and accepts admission to the state school’s local branch, asks them to defer enrollment for a year. It seems like the best he that can hope for now.

Finding the best thing to do for Octavia is a labyrinth in its own right. That the county doesn’t think _he’s_ the best thing for her, the best place for his sister, wrecks him repeatedly, a guilt he’s not sure he’ll ever get through, but ultimately he has to agree. Bellamy is eighteen, but even working multiple summer jobs, it’s a struggle to make the ends meet, a struggle to imagine how he could do it while making sure Octavia is safe and happy and taken care of for at least the next three years of her life.

So he accepts the extra room in his mother’s cousin’s house when she offers it, sells the house they lived in for the last four years of his life, and tries to set as much of the money aside for his sister as he can. Octavia could be happy here, he thinks, even though they both barely knew Indra before social services granted her temporary custody from his mom’s short will. But it’s rocky, at least as much as he expected it to be: Octavia short and angry in bursts, overwhelmed and broken in others.

Mostly, Bellamy just tries to keep breathing.

By the time August rolls into September, he starts to believe that, just maybe, things could work out.

He’s walking through the kitchen to his room, sweaty and tired after a shift at the country club, and it feels almost normal. Octavia’s propped up by the old, dinged laptop she uses, flipping between a word document and Facebook, when he hears her.

“Oh, Clarke’s in Boston now!”

The blood in his body stands still for just a second before everything starts operating again.

He moves mechanically to sit by his sister, stares at the update on the screen informing him that Clarke Griffin’s location has officially been changed, and blinks. He can feel Octavia watching him carefully, knows he probably look like he just got hit by a truck, but he had forgotten.

Bellamy had somehow managed to forget this part of his life, the optimism and future that were carried with it, and it’s strange to see the two paths of his existence laid out in front of him so simply. Everything that was to be, in the one line “moved to Boston;” everything that is, in the tabletop pressed against his palm.

“Do you regret it?” Octavia asks, and for once she sounds small. It shakes him back to the present. He winds an arm around her shoulders, pulls her in.

“For you? Never.”

He means it.

 

* * *

 

That night, his dreams taste like peppermint.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second part coming eventually soon probably promise.  
> (Which you can talk to me about [here](http://apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com/), or just look at characters' faces with me.)


	2. And I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years. It's been six years since he's seen her, talked to her, watched the light cross her face as she smiled at him. Six years since graduation, when he thought there was nothing ahead of them but hope and time. 
> 
> Clarke showing up in his town, is his bar, might not be the last thing he expected, but there are days he would have guessed that being claimed as the heir of a foreign city-state was more likely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind words on part 1, and for being so patient in the wake of election-induced numbness, one very dead computer, and general life distractions. I hope part 2 was worth the wait. <3
> 
> Titles still from [Grouplove](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYoVflkmxg4).

The rain has slowed to a drizzle by the time Bellamy reaches the bar. He pulls the hood of his jacket off his head, shakes it and his hair out as well as he can before opening the door. The space is dark and musty but warm as it always is, lit by small yellow lights that hang over each table and the fluorescents of branded beer signs.

The damp October air clinging to his shoulders begins to fade, fingers of heat weaving their way back to him as he winds his way to a booth in the center, set perfectly in the bartender’s line of sight and far enough from the stage for conversation to be plausible even on event nights. Monty’s already there, as he expected, Monroe popping pretzels into her mouth as Harper leans against the bar, fingers tapping to the music playing under the room’s noise. Gina waves from behind the counter as she pours a beer and Bellamy slides into the seat.

Monty grins at him before reaching out to snatch one of Monroe’s tosses from mid-air.

“Hey,” he chirps around the pretzel in his mouth. “Long day?”

Bellamy grunts, settling back against the seat. “Midterms.”

“You mean it’s more than just finger-painting all day?” Monroe quips as she grabs another handful of pretzels from the basket on the table.

Bellamy snorts and runs a hand through his hair, gratefully taking a sip of the beer Harper brings back for him before answering. “Turns out masters degrees focus a little bit more on development and theory. Even for early childhood education.”

“Yeah, Monroe. It’s obviously the _theory_ of finger-painting that’s important.” Harper grins and bumps the other girl’s shoulder.

Bellamy never really expected to end up in Virginia. Octavia left for the west coast as soon as she was able, still overwhelmed with anger and desperate to find herself. It’s helping her, he thinks, but he had floundered for a while, trying to find a new balance without that axis; trying, for the first time he could recall, to live a life in which there was no center other than himself. When a graduate program he'd applied to offered not only financial aid but the chance to be in the same city as Miller again, he had taken it.

In theory, Bellamy would like to be the kind of person who made decisions like that without being impacted by others, but he never will be. It had all just seemed to fit.  

Because Miller? Raven, who wound up nearby shortly after a knee injury took her out of the field and into the office of the product development company she worked for? They were his family.

That holds more weight than the ocean, for him.

He looks around the table, everyone cast in a warm shallow glow from the crappy lighting, and feels again that he stumbled into some place he could call home. The culture of DC stretches to one side of their town, the mountains to another, and in between: them.

His people.

He grabs a fry off the plate that’s appeared in front of him and lets the foam of his beer wash it down.

“Oh!” Monty says, perking in his seat. “I invited a friend from college who just moved to town. So everybody be nice.” He tries to level an intimidating glare and Bellamy laughs along with everyone else. Monty can hold his own when need be, but his intimidation still comes off like a puppy learning to bark.

Bellamy falls into the lull of the evening, the easy cadence of familiar voices soothing over the politics of student teaching and the aching shoulders of too many hours spent studying. The beer and the company make it easy for his body to relax, to pretend the only thing he has to worry about is everyone getting home safe.  He and Monroe are debating the value of Netflix’s multiple Marvel series when Monty perks up in his seat.

“Hi!” Monty bounds out of the booth and into the heart of the bar before Bellamy has time to process what's happening. His mouth is tilting up at Monty’s energetic bounds, eyes following his movements naturally, when every cell in his body stills.

Her hair is shorter than he remembers, brushing her shoulders with bright red tips that fade up into a sun-streaked blonde. She's smiling at Monty, face bright and laughing, and Bellamy can only see her in blurs through the twirl of people around them, but everything is golden where she stands.

Clarke.

It feels like he might vibrate out of his skin.

“Guys!” Monty bounces back over, Clarke grabbing onto his arm to follow. “Everyone, this is Clarke. Clarke, this is Monroe, Harper, and Bellamy.”

Harper and Monroe wave in turn and Clarke waves back. “Nice to meet you guys.” She turns to Bellamy, smiles soft and a little shy. “Hey, Bellamy.”

He swallows. “Hey.”

Her eyes are still the clearest blue he's ever seen.

She slips into the booth across from him, everyone shifting down to make room, and Bellamy focuses on the ring of condensation his beer has left on the table, running his finger through until it forms a starburst.

It feels as if he's watching from outside himself--Clarke's eyes sliding to him over the course of the evening, fidgeting in his seat until he sits on his hands just to keep them still, clearing his throat every time he speaks to get past the lump of emotions gathered there.

Clarke showing up in his town, is his bar, might not be the _last_ thing he expected, but there are days he would have guessed that being claimed as the heir of a foreign city-state was more likely.

Six years. It's been six years since he's seen her, talked to her, watched the light cross her face as she smiled at him. Six years since graduation, when he thought there was nothing ahead of them but hope and time.

He's loitering outside the bar, double checking his pockets for phone and wallet when she sidles up next to him.

“Hey,” she says, a little tentative, the sound of it disjointed with the authoritative voice he remembers. “Do you think we could talk sometime? Maybe catch up?”

Bellamy clears his throat, wincing a little at the sound of it cutting the air yet again. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Uh, you know the park by the river?” She nods. “We could meet there?”

Clarke smiles. “Tomorrow? Does 3:00 work?”

He nods, and she turns towards the street, pausing before her foot hits the curb.

“It is good to see you, Bellamy. Really good.”

He licks his lips, just for a change of pace. “It's good to see you, too.”

He can see the way her hair glows under the streetlights long after she walks away.

 

* * *

 

 

Miller is sprawled out on the couch when Bellamy gets home, still dressed in the uniform for the security company he consults with, and Bellamy falls into the cushion next to him.

“Clarke’s here.”

Bellamy can feel Miller watching him, eyebrows raised and beer paused halfway to his mouth. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, and rubs his temples. “Shit.”

 

* * *

 

It’s not like he hasn’t been with anyone since Clarke.

Bellamy slept with a handful of people his first two years of college, whenever the opportunity presented itself and he didn’t feel like he was drowning. He even tried dating during his senior year, once Octavia was away at school and he realized the sex never helped with the lead in his chest. Nothing stuck. The longest relationship was a couple of months with a kind, honey-haired girl whom he probably could have loved, eventually. If he gave it enough time.

He didn’t.

And it’s not like he hasn’t used people, either. He has. He knows he has. But not Clarke. Never Clarke. With the way things went, them sleeping together and him all but vanishing...

He hates that she might think he had.

The day dawns sunny and Bellamy almost wishes for rain, almost wishes he could chalk the day up to good intentions and signs from the universe, spend it wrapped inside of papers and methodology.

Instead, he ends up on a bench by the river where the slope of the land levees rolling water away from the city. Bellamy tries to get lost in it like he always does, tries to follow its course to the Potomac, to the ocean on a raft in his mind but he’s distracted by the coil in his gut, the metallic taste of guilt and anxiety that someone he used to love might feel he abandoned them.

He never called. Never gave Clarke any explanation, any word of warning, just tumbled into his own web and hoped she didn’t get caught in the strings.

He’s fidgeting with the cardboard sleeve on his cup of tea when she sits down.

She doesn’t speak at first, just observes the falling leaves and the river with a focus he remembers from high school. It gives him a chance to study her in the light of day--the tips of her hair more magenta than red, fading into pink where her blonde shines through the dye, waves messy. There are a few lines starting to crease her forehead, a few faint freckles where there weren’t before, but the mark above her mouth is still the same.

It’s strange, not knowing her in the way that comes from seeing someone every day. But somewhere underneath her tighter shoulders, her blanker face, underneath the changes time and life have brought, there’s something familiar and comfortable shining through. They’ve barely spoken, but she still feels like _Clarke_.

“It’s nice here,” she says finally, watching as a tree branch that’s fallen into the water is whipped away downstream. She smiles a little, looking at him from the corner of her eye. “I pass by all the time, but I’ve never stopped.”

Bellamy nods, licks his lips. He has no idea how to start this conversation nor how to avoid the topic at hand. The nerves singing in his fingertips make him feel restless once again. Silence seems to stiffen in the space between them for a moment before he breaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Clarke turns to face him, brow furrowing slightly. “Bellamy--”

“No, Clarke, let me. Please.” It feels like something bursting under his skin now that he’s started, a heaviness that claws with desperation to own his demons, own his faults, free the air around her into brightness. Her eyes flicker over his face and it must show because she bites her lip, another piece of her he recognizes, before nodding. He continues. “I’m so sorry I disappeared on you.”

The words are tumbling out now, the wall he built turned into a rockslide.

“I didn’t want to--didn’t mean to--and, God, I hope you didn’t think it was because--” He stops, breathes. “My mom died.”

Clarke’s face softens, her hand sliding onto his arm. “Bell--”

He shakes his head, determined. “I meant to talk to you after graduation, meant to tell you and clear the air and make sure we were okay after...everything, but then my mom died and there was Octavia and there was school and there was Octavia _in_ school and it was the only thing I could focus on for a while and, I just--I’m sorry. For how any of it may have made you feel. I take responsibility for that.”

Bellamy looks at her then, frazzled and a bit raw but trying to keep his face stoic, strong. This was about her more than it was about him. He’s not going to give her a reason to disagree.

Her fingers find his, skin cool even in the sun. “It’s okay.” He starts to protest and Clarke shakes her head, bats hair away from her face from where the wind has whipped it out from behind her ears. Her gaze flicks over the park before turning back to his.

“My dad died, my second year of college.” Bellamy’s hand squeezes hers once, quick, and she gives the ghost of a smile before continuing. “I couldn’t...didn’t want to deal with anyone else. Taking care of myself was enough of an effort. So I just--didn’t. Deal with it, I mean. I shut myself off for a solid six months before I could face everything else again.” Shots of gold gleam through the blue in her eyes as she looks at him. “And that was _without_ having a fourteen year old sister to worry about. I get it, Bellamy. I really do.”

He believes her.

For once, his shoulders feel lighter under the grace of another, his guilt less an echo than a whisper.

But this is Clarke, who always understood him, even when he was a young and confused and pompous in the face of the world.

How could he forget?

He licks his lips, a little tentative. “So, we're okay?”

“Yeah. We're great.”

She smiles--warm, warm, warm--and somewhere inside him, burrowed deep, something blooms.

 

* * *

 

He invites her back to the bar the next week.

It’s trivia night, and Clarke slots herself in next to him casually, grabbing the pencil out of his hand like they’re 16 and working around a classroom desk again.

When Raven walks in, her knee brace reflecting flashes of the glowing lights, her eyes sweep over Clarke, leaning across Bellamy, and her voice is almost dispassionate when she speaks.

“Griffin.”

Clarke’s gaze flicks over Raven, somehow observant and apathetic at once, and she echoes her tone when she answers. “Reyes.”

Then Raven breaks into a grin and they fall into each other laughing, unconcerned with the baffled shrugs Bellamy and Miller exchange.

“I didn’t know you were in town!”

“Yeah, a little over a month now.”

“And nobody mentioned this to me?”

Raven raises a brow at Miller and Bellamy in turn as the girls catch up, her eyes flitting between Bellamy and Clarke for a moment with a look that reads ‘ _Should I be concerned?’_

Bellamy shakes his head, small enough for only her to notice, and sips his beer.

He’s fine. Really.

Clarke is an easy staple in their group after that.

But, moreso, she’s once again a staple in Bellamy’s life.

It feels like it should be odd, the ease with which she slots into her long-empty place in his world. Instead, it’s like discovering a possibility that was always there; an alternate version lying right beneath the surface, a rock his toes could feel but his hands couldn't quite bring up from beneath the sand.

Their old habits shape to fit their current lives easily. He texts her when he sees a cat being walked on a leash, instead of flicking a note at her head during class. They meet up for lunch most Wednesdays, when her schedule at the non-profit she works for lines up with his classes, but the food is usually better than the cafeteria’s was. They share their fears, their absentminded daydreams, their time.

Bellamy thinks they still fit, these new versions of themselves they’ve become.

And it’s so simple, really, to feel the echo of being young and bright and free again, Clarke Griffin standing by his side.

 

* * *

 

Halfway through March, he notices.

The school district organizes a Spring Fair for the local elementary schools, full of boardwalk games and sweets and small businesses. Clarke helps operate a small booth for the organization she works with selling popcorn balls and craft kits like the kind she assembles for the arts and science programs they offer child care and retirement centers.

Naturally, this means Bellamy ends up offering to help.

“Thanks again for volunteering,” Clarke says, carrying the last plastic tub of goods from her trunk while Bellamy wrangles the plastic folding table they’ve been assigned into submission. “I’m at least getting paid to do this.”

Bellamy snorts. “No, you’re not.”

“Okay, not for this _specifically_ , but in the general sense, I’m getting paid. It’s my job.”

“I was under the impression that I was getting paid, too.” Clarke raises a brow and he cocks one back. “I believe you said something about free pizza?”

She laughs. “Ah, yes. My favorite wage: cheap.”

Bellamy shrugs, grins at her a little lopsided. “Hey, not everything’s changed since high school. I can still be pretty easy to please.”

Her cheeks pink a little prettily, everything glowing in the mid-morning sun, and she looks like the best parts of summer even with her tongue stuck out at him. The air is still crisp, the last vestige of winter, but Clarke bumps her hip to his when she passes and he ducks his head, smiles. Small shoots of green in his chest sway with a breeze when she smiles back.

He wants to lay down in it, bask in her.

Bellamy hasn’t been waiting for Clarke.

He hasn’t been pining, or fantasizing, or anything else he imagines could be a problem in the “I-loved-you-in-high-school-and-you’re-back-in-my-life” scenario.

But, well, Clarke is still the type of person he wants to be around all the time. Is still _the_ person he wants to be around all the time.

He can’t help that.

The bar is loud and crowded later when they meet their friends, people milling around the karaoke machine someone brought out to celebrate the end of winter.

Bellamy lingers in the booth, nursing a beer while Miller and Monty discuss whether “rock paper scissors” involves strategy and Monroe stares lovingly at a plate of nachos. Raven and Clarke are in the sign-up line to sing, Harper bouncing on the cleared space serving as an impromptu dance floor. Someone is belting a pitchy rendition of Adele--thankfully over halfway through--and he feels relaxed and content with a drink already in his stomach.

He tries to pay attention, really, to anything going on around him, but his eyes keep coming back to Clarke. Her hair is all blonde again and it weaves with Raven’s where their heads are bent close together over the binder of songs, streaks of gold shining out through the black like shafts of light through a crack. Tingling spreads through his arms and legs and it reminds him of when he was little and saw an ice cream truck on a hundred-degree day, a promise of sweetness they couldn’t quite afford but that his limbs couldn’t help reaching out for anyway.

She would be sweet. She would be warm.

“Bellamy? What do you think?”

He snaps back to the table, aware of where he is, who he’s with. Miller’s watching him with one eyebrow raised. Monty repeats something about the comparison of a three-choice-theory with quest options in video games and Bellamy grunts, vaguely non-committal, and brings his beer back to his mouth for another swig. Miller’s voice responding to Monty’s fades to a murmur in his mind.

Across the bar, Clarke laughs and he turns. Her head is thrown back, the line of her neck long and backlit, eyes closed in shadow and the skin of her cheeks iridescent in the shine of the Blue Moon sign on the wall. She’s glowing, magic, the birth of every brilliant and dark thing he’s ever seen, and when her eyes slip open, slide over to find his, Bellamy swears he can feel even the blood inside him spin.  

The moment breaks and Clarke and Raven climb on stage, Bellamy cheering with the rest of the table. The girls wave up Harper who grabs Monroe, tripping into place as the music booms, pairs of them clustered around the two microphones with faux-serious expressions.

“If you want my future,” Raven sing-shouts, bouncing on her good leg next to Clarke, “forget my past.”

Clarke falls in easily, cradling the mic in her hands. “If you wanna get with me, better make it fast.”

Harper and Monroe continue, building to the chorus, but Bellamy’s still watching Clarke, shaking his head and bursting with fondness as she pouts dramatically and points at him in time with her movements, disjointed dance moves the women all seem to share with their adolescent selves.

Yells of “ _zig-a-zag-ah_ ” sound around the bar off-beat and Clarke’s smile breaks through as they finish, echoes of “ _my lover, lover_ ” drifting through the speakers. Her eyes are bright when they find his as she winds back to the booth with Raven’s arm draped across her shoulders and Bellamy knows this is one of those moments that will feel like a film tape in 20 years, overly-warm and a little fuzzy, full absorption every time he remembers.

He can’t wait. But right now is pretty good, too.

 

* * *

 

When the night is over, Bellamy falls onto the couch in his apartment, mind overfull and body tired. Miller stands watching for a minute, kicks off his shoes and runs his thumb over the keys still in his hand.

Finally, he clears his throat.

“I don’t need to tell you this time, do I?”

Bellamy rubs his hand across his face, sinks a little further into the cushions.

“Nah,” he says, looking up at Miller. “This time I know.”

Miller nods and knocks his hand against Bellamy’s shoulder, giving it a rough squeeze before turning off to bed.

“Good luck, man.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy murmurs, though there’s no one there to hear him.

He finds himself staring at the ceiling once again.

 

* * *

 

There’s nothing different, nothing to change, really.

He loves Clarke, he’s in love with Clarke--one or the other has always been true. It’s a staple at this point.

Probably.

That’s what Bellamy tells himself, anyway. He figures he can take at least a week.

The universe gives him that, but not much more.

Miller leaves town for a long weekend to visit his dad and Bellamy spends most of the first day and a half on the sofa. He's so entrenched in debating himself on whether, with their history, he owes it to both himself and Clarke to tell her, that when his phone vibrates Friday evening with a text from her, he knees the edge of the coffee table.

_Worked with donors all afternoon and want to break something. Can I come over so we can hate people together?_

He snorts, rubbing at the sore spot on his skin, and types back one-handed.

_Door’s open._

He buzzes Clarke into the building when she gets there and, as is customary, she enters the apartment by tossing her bag onto the kitchen counter before throwing herself at the couch. This time, though, she lets herself land against his side, presses her face against his shoulder.

She groans. “Why do I have a job that makes me work with people?”

“There, there,” Bellamy says, reaching up to pat her head to the extent offered by the awkward angle of his trapped arm. “At least you're good at it.”

“That's because I'm good at everything,” she huffs, shifting so she's more tucked against his arm instead of faceplanted against it.

Bellamy snorts but hands her the remote.

Clarke flips through the channels until she settles on TBS. It's some movie with Kristen Bell and a cast he otherwise can't quite make sense of, and he doesn't realize why it feels so familiar until he has a flash of watching it the winter of his senior year, crammed into a seat between Clarke and Raven without an armrest to claim.

Bellamy’s still not really sure what’s going on in it (something about past relationships, maybe?), but Clarke has relaxed into him, his arm moved to drape more comfortably around her, so he doesn't mind. It feels nice just to have her there. It always does.

He’s sinking into the warmth and weight of the woman against his side, the easiness of the evening, when Clarke tilts her head just slightly, voice overly calm against the murmur of commercials.

“You know, I totally had a thing for you in high school.”

Bellamy licks his lips, swallows. The back of his neck prickles with heat but he wills his voice to stay level. “Yeah?”

“Most of senior year. Which, I mean, I guess we both eventually got, but yeah. Kind of had it bad.” She cranes her neck towards him and he laughs, a little nervous, runs his hand through his hair.

Look, universe. He can take a sign.

“Yeah, I, um. I was kind of in love with you.”

Clarke wrenches back so she can she his face more fully, her cheeks growing pink in the warm lamplight. “Really?”

He nods, licks his lips. It’s a habit he would think he needs to get under control except, this time, Clarke's eyes trace the motion, irises an ocean amongst the black when they move.

“Huh.” She takes a deep breath, considering, draws her shoulders back. Her voice is quieter, a little shaky, when she cocks her head and looks at him. “And...now?”

Bellamy tries to swallow but his throat’s too dry, everything hoarse and aching when he speaks.

“Now...now I'm pretty sure I'm more than kind of in love with you.”

Clarke freezes for a moment and his pulse races through every vein and then she smiles, leans forward so her forehead touches his.

“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”

Then his arms are full of Clarke and he can't breathe until he realizes he's laughing against her mouth and she against his and everything is bright and coated in light. He pulls away just enough so he can see her, brush a strand of hair off her face.

“So, this…us?” Bellamy waves a hand between them, brain failing to find the words for what he’s trying to ask.

Clarke nods anyway, almost shy. “I mean, if you want to.”

Bellamy drags her fully into his lap, lips firm against hers before her surprised squeak is even finished. He doesn’t have any doubts. She laughs as he pulls away, softening when she sees his face.

“I want to,” he says, and Clarke sinks back against him. Their kiss is gentle, sweet, something unhurried thrumming through the air now that they’re here once again. It echoes inside his head with the hum of a bell that’s just rung and Bellamy leans into it, wraps his arms around Clarke so she’s all he can feel--the frame of her ribcage, the hitch of their breaths, the warmth beating back and forth between them.

Their mouths move easily, slow and deep until Clarke’s tongue flickers past and a jolt runs through his body.

She still tastes like peppermint.

A half-growl, half-grin slips out of him as he shifts, moving to lay Clarke back against the cushions, but she pushes back against his chest, shakes her head. Everything about her is gold and glorious as she stands, offers him her hand, and he takes it, follows without question, without thought.

It’s Clarke, and him, and they’ll get where they’re going.

She stops and turns when they reach his bedroom, shrugs one shoulder and lets her eyes trace from the sweatpants slung low across his hips to the mop of hair threatening to fall in his eyes.

“We might as well be comfortable, right?”

He rolls his eyes, just a little, and steps into her again. This kiss is hot, wet, and Clarke nips against his lip until he huffs and pushes her back towards his bed. Rising up on her toes and weaving her fingers through his hair, she pulls him down with her, arches when Bellamy’s hand slips under her sweater and across her back.

They move in bouts, slow and careful to playful and urgent: him thumbing open the button of her jeans just before slipping her sweater off, her hands running under the waistband of his pants and across his ass until he kicks the fabric down to the floor, garment by garment until the only thing left is the thin cotton barriers of their underwear and Bellamy can dip his head to kiss the flesh of her breast.

Hands wander over each other, eyes and lips following easily, rediscovering places they’ve been.

It’s different than he remembers, both of them having changed how they wear their own skin. But it’s the same in a lot of ways, too. Her hair still gleams where it catches the light; her skin still beckons; her grin against his lips is still one of the best things he’s ever felt. She still shines like she carries the sun within her.

Bellamy runs his thumb across a small scar beneath the right side of her ribcage, a matching pink puncture mark just visible the band of fabric sweeping across her skin.

“Appendectomy,” Clarke says, then grins a little wry. “On my 21st birthday.”

He snorts and shakes his head, lets his eyes and hands drift across the swell of her stomach. On her opposite hip, he stalls over seven small dots of slightly different sizes, arching across her skin in a rough semi-circle that faces up in the space above the peak of bone. Thin lines run between each of the points, a constellation made to float along her side forever. Her voice is softer this time when he glances up, her fingers dropping down to trace the shape alongside his own.

“ _Corona borealis_. The Northern Crown. It was recorded by Ptolemy--”

Bellamy drags a knuckle of her finger across the edge of his teeth gently. “I know who Ptolemy is, Clarke.”

“Oh, right, I forgot I was talking to the president of the Classics Club.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“You’re right; I didn’t.” She licks her lips, already swollen red from his attention. “Anyway, two of the stars in it are these rare types, and one of those was the class my dad focused on researching. He would point it out to me every time he had the chance. I got it tattooed a year after he died.”

Bellamy weaves his fingers between hers and Clarke smiles, small but grateful. He places a kiss carefully atop each star, letting his lips run gentle and slow across the curve of the shape until his mouth has covered the expanse of her hip. Her eyes are wide and wild by the time he’s finished and he teases his fingers under the elastic waistband cutting her skin. Clarke raises her hips eagerly and he drags the fabric down, presses his grin against the pale curls trailing down to the lips of her cunt, and sets about learning her taste.

When she’s shaking and sated, kicking at his boxer-briefs in an ineffective attempt to push them down, he pulls back and helps her get them off, stopping when they’re both naked to just observe her for a moment. Her chest is flushed bright red, lip still trapped between her teeth and pieces of hair pirouetting across the pillowcase. Her face softens when she finds him watching and she crooks a finger, draws him down between her knees.

Clarke kisses him tender and lazy, scraping his lip against her teeth, tracing his tongue with the tip of her own, pulling him down until she can wrap one hand around the nape of his neck and one around his cock. She strokes in time with the movements of their mouths and whines low in her throat until Bellamy has to break away, take a moment just to breathe against her.

Her wrist twists and he bites back a groan.

“Clarke…”

“Hmm?” She’s nosing at the side of his neck, lips pressed sweetly against the skin of his collarbone and Bellamy’s sure she can feel his heart beating through her, too.

“Are you...we don’t have to...there’s probably time--”

“Bellamy,” she laughs, “I want to. Now.”

She turns her head until their lips meet and he nods against them, murmurs, “Okay.”

He rolls on a condom and Clarke helps him with the lube and this part--catching her breath as he slides inside, feeling himself completely wrapped up in her--this part is exactly the same: a mix of magic and mess and miracles humming through his veins.

Everything around him is warmth and warmth and warmth and at the center of it all, Clarke.

It’s easier to fall into each other this time, both more sure of what they’re doing, but hearing Clarke’s sigh hiccup mid-thrust, hearing his name on her lips when his hips meet hers, seeing her cheeks and eyes glow as she pulls back from kissing him still feels a little like suddenly finding himself the luckiest man in the world.

Bellamy props himself up on his elbows and the movement makes Clarke bury her face against her own arm, breathe out that little gasp of “ _Bell_ ” that makes his hips snap. He pulls himself up further and runs his hand across her body, over the peaks of her nipples and the dips of her thighs, words falling from his mouth that he’s not quite aware of beyond the fact that he loves every part of her, that he can’t believe they got this lucky, that he needs her to fall so he can stumble after her and he’s telling her all of it.

But she does fall, tugging him down so his hand’s locked between them and her open mouth is pressed against the skin of his shoulder, breath harsh and hot and driving him more than a little desperate. He trails his lips across her face, no longer coordinated enough for each touch to form a kiss, and Clarke encourages him, hums in his ear until she feels him tense, feels his body go limp atop hers.

Clarke follows when he turns, lays herself out against his chest and Bellamy wraps his arms around her, soaks in the way she can make every part of him feel secure. After a moment, she wriggles off, pads to the bathroom, and after she’s done Bellamy does the same. He’s a little nervous what he’ll find when he returns but there’s Clarke, naked and languid with her face buried in his pillow, smiling up at him when her cracked eyes catch him watching from the doorway.

“I was going to see if you wanted to stay,” he murmurs, slipping in beside her, “but it looks like you’ve already answered.” He presses his lips against her shoulder, smiles when she squirms at the tickle of his fingers across her waist.

“Oh, was I supposed to ask?” Clarke cocks an eyebrow at him impishly and he laughs, pulls her in until they’re curled up skin to skin.

“No. Make yourself at home.”

 

* * *

 

Bellamy wakes to rain.

The steady patter of it taps against the window, droplets soft and steady as they streak the pane, dissipating a smooth gray light around the room. He settles back into the sheets after checking the time, knowing they have nowhere to be, and returns his arm to where it was resting across Clarke’s chest. She’s thrown one arm above her head in her sleep, her skin marked with a press of lines from the pillow, and Bellamy can’t help but bury his face into her neck, breathe in the smell of hair and skin and them.

Clarke stirs and turns to look at him.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Mm, sure, sure,” she says groggily, moving until his arm is wrapped around her and she can bury her yawn in his chest. Bellamy presses a kiss to her head and she lifts slightly, fitting their lips together with a lazy movement until she has to break off and smother another yawn. He snorts quietly, running his fingers down her back.

“I’ll get up and make you coffee in a little bit.”

Clarke hums and bands her arm around him, face pressed above where he can feel the beat of his heart echo. She traces spots with the tip of her finger, connecting freckles to form stars and circles and nudging against his hand when Bellamy smooths it over her scalp. They’re quiet for a while, content in their cocoon of sheets and skin, silently absorbing this new part of themselves, too.

Clarke’s the one who finally speaks, hand still following a cluster of freckles scattered across his pectoral.

“I’m really glad we ended up here.” She glances up at him, a stormy blue peeking through the sweep of lashes. “I just want you to know that.”

Her voice is still rough with sleep and Bellamy lets his fingers drift through her hair, brushing away the strands that have fallen across her face, weaving gold and silver in the early light. It gives him a moment to swallow down the sudden lump in his throat.

“I still can’t quite believe it, honestly.”

Clarke hums again, considering.

“You really loved me way back in high school?”

“I didn't figure it out until after we had sex, but yeah. It was definitely there.” He smiles a little, wry. “I was going to tell you sometime that summer. I figured we had time.”

Clarke stretches up to kiss him again, soft and warm. The easiest thing in the world.

“Well, I guess time was on our side after all,” she murmurs, burrows her face back into his chest. His arm tightens around her.

Bellamy thinks back to himself at 18, presses his lips against her brow.

“Yeah,” he whispers.

The morning feels still and full, rivers spread out in every direction. He can imagine where they start, with this woman in his arms, with the sleep and hope that fill the atmosphere.

He doesn’t think the two of them have anything left to fear in the universe’s movements.

They have all the time in the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they are singing Spice Girls, and yes, I made Bellamy watch _When in Rome_ multiple times. I'm so sorry, Bellamy.
> 
> I'm taking holiday prompts on [tumblr](apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com).


End file.
